Not Good
by Ashipisawishyourheartmakes
Summary: Sherlock has had it. John is constantly being distracted by his women. These interruptions are proving tedious. Very tedious. Warning: dubious consent, possible triggers. *oneshot*


**A/N: This story is meant to be set sometime after Sherlock's return. Warning: This story contains some dubious consent. May contain triggers.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to someone else. A person can dream...**

* * *

The atmosphere in the morgue had never been more... well, not dead.

Sherlock was in rare form. The air around him was positively crackling with tension.

He was on edge. All twisting energy, ready to snap like one of his violin strings. Dangerously close to losing control.

Dangerously close to dangerous.

Sherlock threw down the casefile and allowed his hands to tear angrily through his already frazzled hair.

"Who was it?" He bit out, blinking furiously down at the corpse in front of him.

His companion eyed him cautiously from the other side of the drawer.

"Well, erm... hard to say really. None of the evidence has pointed to anyone conclusively. It could have been any of the four men we interviewed."

"Not helpful." Sherlock's eyes narrowed hatefully. He continued to study the body.

_Missing something. Something. Always Something. God, just think!_

The shorter figure huffed, earlier caution forgotten in a fit of temper.

"Well?! What do you expect me to do, Sherlock? I have no bloody idea who did it! I was under the impression figuring all that out was rather a large part of your job description. I am here to assist you with medical things and whatever else you need, but I'm not a ruddy oracle."

Sherlock lost it.

He recklessly slammed the drawer shut, cadaver and all, and rounded on his partner.

"Get out! Your lack of dedication to this case has been appalling, and more unforgivably, distracting. Clearly there is somewhere else you would rather be, so please, do not let the murder of an innocent man keep you from your cavorting!"

He flushed angrily, struggling to regain control, vision hazy with rage.

He saw annoyance, affection and fidelity flickering across that familiar harassed face.

He saw the head bow slightly at the chastisement and then the jut out of the chin, proud, defiant. He saw the mouth open to contradict him.

He saw red.

"SHUT UP JOHN!"

Suddenly his hands were shooting out of their own volition. He felt a distant flicker of concern, not sure of his own intentions. They buried themselves in the jumper, two fistfuls of ivory wool. Then lips were crashing together, a flurry of teeth and tongues and heat. A startled sound followed by a whimper. Sherlock's heart was racing, his blood the steady thrum of an exciting case. His hands were everywhere at once, under the jumper seeking out evidence of the Afghani bullet, fisting through the sweet-smelling sandy hair. Then they were on the floor and a pair of trembling hands were at his trouser clasp. They were panting and sticky and Sherlock's mind reeled. The adrenaline ripping through his veins was intoxicating. The hands grabbed his head, bring him back in for another fierce kiss. _Hands, two crumpled pairs of trousers, skin so much warm skin, face buried in cableknit heaven and then-_ Sherlock's whole world narrowed to the feel of that wet heat and his hands, his desperate, painful grip on the hips below him. It was... indescribable. He felt himself moving as if through a fog. It was the ecstasy of every case he'd ever solved, it was the euphoria and blissful mental quiet of every drugged he'd ever taken. It was everything all at once. It was overwhelming. No wonder John-_ Not the time_.

Sherlock wanted to revel in this land of sensation for years, but the broken needy sounds coming from beneath him were bringing a swift end to the encounter.

Then everything was white, red and starbursts; he fancied he could taste music and feel colors.

He drifted slowly back into himself and let out a sigh. "John"

"Molly." A small voice corrected

Sherlock extracted himself and focused on the smaller body beneath him. Molly looked back, exhausted and sweaty and just a bit sad.

"Where's John?"

Molly smiled weakly.

"Left about an hour ago. D-date"

"But I was just... talking to him." Sherlock frowned at her, willing her to change back into John.

She flashed her tremulous smile again. "Yes. Well, not your fault if he wasn't listening."

She rose and set herself to rights. "Come on then, murder to solve."

Sherlock also stood.

"Molly. I feel that I should apologize for my behavior-"

Molly touched his arm gently and shook her head.

"It's fine Sherlock. It's all fine. Whatever you need."

Sherlock got himself dressed and joined Molly back by the drawer, back where they had started. As they worked, he watched her surreptitiously.

For once Sherlock did not need John's interpretation.

Even with his flatmate out on a date, he could tell this situation with Molly was very Not Good.


End file.
